


Like You Would Do

by ConceptaDecency



Series: The Education of Elim Garak [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M, Pre-Canon Cardassia, Teenage Elim Garak, shameless foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 16:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21200885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/pseuds/ConceptaDecency
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Elim Garak has never failed this spectacularly before. How will his mother and Uncle Enabran (who he's almost certain is his father) react?An exploration of class, power, love, cultural taboos, and family secrets.





	Like You Would Do

**Author's Note:**

> MILD SPOILER:
> 
> I've tagged this fic underage, but to be specific, there is a bit of consensual but awkward sexual fumbling and oral sex between two teenage boys of about sixteen. It's graphic, but I don't think it's pornographic or exploitative. In my opinion it's rather relatable to anyone who was once an awkward horny teenager themselves.
> 
> References to Cardassian reproduction and sex adapted from [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479%E2%80%9D%20rel=) by tinsnip.

He feels he must know every line in the pattern on his school trousers, every wrinkle, every crease, better even than the rivers and boundaries of the Northern Continent, the geography of which every school child learns by heart in their second year. He’s been sitting here, staring at his lap, on the cruelly awkward chair outside Uncle Enabran’s library, for what feels like hours. He flicks a ball of fluffy linty detritus from his knee onto the floor, then immediately feels guilty about it. Mila will be the one cleaning it up later, and he’s put her through enough today already. He shifts on the irregularly stuffed cushion. The chair is deliberately uncomfortable. He knows this. No one who Uncle is _pleased_ to talk to ever has to wait in this chair, but his enemies or those he wishes to intimidate are often made to sit here for hours. Elim debates crossing the echoing corridor to pick up the tiny fluffball. He can see it easily, with the way the light from the lamp is shining, a single speck on the immaculately polished wood floor. It’s as obvious as a priceless object under spotlight, on a plinth in the People’s Museum of Cardassia. But he decides not to. If he’s caught out of the chair, he’ll just make things worse for himself. So he turns his attention back to the patterned fabric on his legs and tries to listen.

Inside the library, his mother and Uncle Enabran — who is much more than just his mother’s benevolent employer, he’s been convinced of that for a while now — are having a very heated discussion. About him. Like they are his concerned parents. Which they _both_ are, he’s almost certain. The conversation within is mostly an incomprehensible audio blur, frenetic and tense, but occasionally Mila’s voice is loud enough that some words come through the heavy door. Mila shouts when she’s angry. Uncle just gets quieter. Elim is, admittedly, just like Uncle Enabran — _just like his father_ — in this regard, but when he is the subject, or the source, of the household trouble, he far prefers the shouting. 

“...such hypocrisy, Enabran! I have never...” 

Uncle Enabran’s deeper, slower tone interrupts her. He’s probably telling her to lower her voice, reminding her that Elim is just outside the door, because she becomes much quieter. Though no less passionate, that is clear.

He appreciates what she’s doing for him. Only Mila is ever able to change Uncle Enabran’s mind. He’s never seen anyone else manage it. He’s never seen anyone else shout at Uncle, for that matter, or display anger or hostility of any kind towards him. Everyone else, Elim included, has only a fearful respect for Enabran Tain. But Mila has no fear of him. And no respect, at least not in the way an employee would normally respect her employer. It’s part of the reason Elim is quite sure Uncle Enabran is his father. They argue and bicker, he’s come to realise, like any middle-aged married couple who are (usually) still quite fond of each other. 

Abruptly and violently, the door swings open. “THANK YOU, Mr Tain. I’ll keep that in mind, SIR,” Mila retorts as she charges out. This is a further sign that their discussion did not go well. Sure, in front of visitors she’s the kowtowing servant, but in private, when it’s just the three of them, Mila never calls Uncle ‘sir’ or ‘Mr Tain’, as a housekeeper should, unless she is supremely annoyed at him. Most of the time, he’s ‘Enabran’. Or ‘old grump’. Or ‘meatball’. 

The door crashes shut behind her and she turns to Elim and speaks in Service Dialect. “He wants to talk to you. I did my best, Elim, but he’s not happy. Be careful what you say and how you say it.” This last part is unnecessary. Elim is always careful what he says and how he says it, with Uncle and with anyone else he may encounter. Growing up in Enabran Tain’s house, one learns early the importance of words and of silence. Only with Mila can he be unguarded. 

Like now. He’s been pushing, bit by bit, for the last few months, and he tries his luck again with a particularly bold question. “Why should I talk to _him_ about it, Mila? He’s not my father.”

Mila sighs and gives him a look that says _really, son? now? after what I’ve just done for you?_ and Elim is immediately contrite. Mila launches into a version of the familiar lecture. “You know Uncle Enabran’s provided for us since your father died when you were a baby, Elim. Far more than we ever could have expected him to. He’s paying for that expensive education of yours, in case you’ve forgotten, and so I think he very much has the right to talk to you when you do something stupid at school.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Especially this stupid. Guls, Elim. In a supply closet? _At school?_ Does this boy not have a bedroom you can go to? Or at least the woods?” She crosses and uncrosses her arms. “Next time, if you can’t find somewhere else, come to me. I can at least give you money for a room.” With a final disgusted shake of her head she stalks off towards the stairs. “Go in. He’s waiting,” she calls over her shoulder. “And when he’s finished with you, come downstairs immediately. I’m behind on the ironing because of this mess, so you’re going to do every last piece. And the creases are going to be as crisp as autumn kana leaves or you’re rewashing it and doing it all over again.” 

He’s still desperately ashamed, but nonetheless a weight leaves Elim’s shoulders as his mother stomps down the ornate marble steps, letting each one know decidedly how foolish she believes her nearly-grown son to be. He’d known Mila would be angry, and disappointed in him, but about what he’d been uncertain. The fact that she doesn’t seem to mind that he was with a _boy_, and only that he was foolhardy enough to be with said boy in an imprudent location, is an immense relief. Sure, Mila has never seemed to express any particular animus against _people like him_, but it isn’t as if the topic comes up frequently in the household, either. They aren’t _artists_, just nice service-class people, and it isn’t something nice people talk about. So it’s good to know that his mother now knows, and that she still loves him enough to shout at him about something as inconsequential as laundry. 

But what about Uncle? Even though he’s finally realised that Uncle Enabran is almost certainly his father, he’s never been able to parse just how exactly the man feels about him. All Elim knows is that Uncle is incredibly invested in him. Uncle cares deeply that Elim be as clever and careful and educated and knowledgeable as possible. He’s rarely pleased, even when Elim surpasses his peers by a wide margin. It’s never enough. How will he react when Elim has failed so spectacularly? Elim’s not sure; he’s never failed this spectacularly before. 

He stands and swallows and arranges his face into an impassive expression. He squares his shoulders, then adjusts them down just a little. It won’t do to be the confident but respectful boy he is when he and Uncle are discussing his grades and his future, but nor should he present as too chastened — until Uncle has given him reason to be. Swallowing again, he knocks on the door.

“Enter,” calls Uncle, and Elim does. “Ah, Elim, take a seat.” Uncle is warm and congenial in his usual mishapen cardigan as he waves toward the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He gives Elim a smile that on anyone else would be reassuring. “Luma juice?”

“Thank you, Uncle,” says Elim politely, even though he isn’t particularly fond of luma juice, and Uncle nods and pours a tumbler of the fizzy green drink for Elim and a flute of last spring’s kanar for himself. 

“Well, my boy,” says Uncle Enabran, after they have each sipped and appreciated their drinks, “I understand you had a little scrape with the butcher’s son at that school of yours this morning. Is this true?” He talks as if Elim and Tavvit had got into a schoolyard brawl, rather than what really happened. If he were much younger, Elim might have believed that Uncle genuinely didn’t know the truth, that Mila had somehow managed to keep it from him. But Elim’s familiar with Uncle Enabran’s tactics. Uncle knows exactly what happened. It’s possible he knows down to the very last detail, though Elim certainly hopes not. Some things are private, surely, and not appropriate for another person to know. Especially if that other person is someone’s parent.

“Yes, Uncle,” is all he says. 

“Oh Elim. I _am_ sorry to hear that. This really isn’t like you. You’re normally a very good boy.” Uncle sips his drink slowly, as if thinking. “What exactly happened in that closet this morning?” 

Elim manages to keep from reacting outwardly, but just barely. Uncle has always been able to take him by surprise. He’d known he would be in trouble, but he hadn’t imagined Uncle would make him recount exactly what he and Tavvit had done. That’s just...indecent, isn’t it? 

“Well, Uncle,” he says slowly, mimicking Uncle’s deliberateness and pausing to sip his juice. It’s sickeningly sweet. “Mr Oritzak and I have been friendly for some time.”

Not exactly true. It’s been far more than friendliness. At least on Elim’s side. Tavvit Oritzak, a butcher’s fifth son, is witty, popular, friendly. So clever he’s attending the People’s Benevolent Academy for Gifted Service-Class Boys on a full scholarship. So kind it was he who single-handedly stopped the speculation about Elim Garak’s dubious place in the social hierarchy by firmly befriending him at the start of the first year of secondary school and entertaining no opposition to this, despite the fact that, though both service-class, a housekeeper’s (even Enabran Tain’s housekeeper’s) half-orphaned son was so many layers below a prosperous butcher’s boy that, really, they should barely speak. And so handsome and tall, with his long neck, fine scalature, winning smile, and soft, gentle eyes that hold whomever he speaks to in the warm bath of his concentration, that all but the bravest girls on the other side of the fence at the People’s Benevolent Academy for Gifted Service-Class Girls are afraid to speak to him. 

How could Elim help but hold such a boy in the highest esteem? How could Elim help but fall in love, given that he is regrettably _that way_ about other boys? He had tried not to, but just like in the books, love happened despite his best efforts to extinguish it (though, of course, it’s never between two men in the books).

Luckily the books provide an excellent guide to dealing with inconvenient love. He was just not to mention it, not to act on it, and, if at all possible, not to think about it. He was to take all his energy and put it into his first love, Cardassia. Which he did, for a year, mostly. He hadn’t betrayed any of his feelings to his friend, even though school and life threw them together at every turn, and had applied himself to his schoolwork, to helping his mother, and to Uncle’s extracurriculars of kotra, literature, and concentration exercises. It had only been some nights, when he was alone in the small bedroom in the basement flat he shared with his mother (and she had gone upstairs to ‘help Uncle with his back’, a process that sometimes had her gone all night) that he dared imagine himself revealing his feelings to Tavvit. In his fantasies Tavvit had always reciprocated, of course, had been longing to reveal exactly the same thing to Elim. After passionate lovemaking they’d run away together and open a successful butcher shop on some distant Union planet, or change their names and hire themselves out as gardeners and live in a little cottage, or buy a ship and travel the quadrant trading goods. By day working away happily at some modest, appropriate trade. By night curled up together in a small bed that offered plenty of opportunity for further lovemaking. Always far away from the sharp eye and long arm of Uncle Enabran and his increasingly concrete plans for Elim's future.

He had scarcely believed it when Tavvit had come to him first, on the school playing field after a dawn training session, still sweating into his gear, worry and determination written all over his expressive face, and confided that he was also _that way_. Afraid and unbelieving, Elim had let Tavvit talk. And Tavvit had talked. About his fears of what his father and mother and nine siblings would think if they ever found out. His regrets that he would have to lie to and marry some unsuspecting woman if he wanted children. His sickening dread that any children he did have would be the same way. His hope that maybe he was wrong or confused or that things would change, if he just pushed this silly thing aside and found the right girl. 

Elim had waited for him to finish. Not out of patience, but in the irrational terror that saying something would cause the truth of Tavvit's words to disappear in a puff, like the haze of the morning that was beginning to vanish from around them as the sun rose higher. When Tavvit had finally spoken his piece, and looked beseechingly to Elim for some kind of response, Elim had been speechless. Should he confess that he was the same way? That they shared many of the same fears? Did Tavvit already know this somehow, and that was why he’d told this to Elim? But...he had to consider that Tavvit had not said he was _in love_ with Elim, as Elim was with him, or even that he might consider Elim in that wat. So, decency aside, it was prudent for Elim to say nothing. 

Prudence was nothing to a teenage boy's desperate, lustful, hopeful young heart, though. Elim had failed to live up to the examples in the books. He’d hesitated perhaps ten seconds, then been undone by his friend’s imploring, velvet-brown eyes. He’d laid his hand on Tavvit's and confessed almost all. Except for the depth of his true feelings, of course. Tavvit had looked at him and squeezed his hand, sliding his fingers along Elim's. And that’s how they’d found themselves in a compromising position in the supply closet that morning.

“Yes, go on,” says Uncle Enabran mildly. “I’m very curious about how this _friendship_ progressed to the point that you found yourselves entangled in a closet.” 

Elim goes on. He has no choice. “It turned out it was a mutual physical esteem as well. Mr Oritzak and I...” Here he hesitates. What are the words one can use to describe what they did? 

Uncle says nothing. He just sips his drink and looks politely expectant. 

“We...discovered we both...” Elim can feel his composure slipping. His neck ridges are burning, and not with the exquisite firey desire he felt when Tavvit's mouth was on them. No, this is pure shame. “We both...” 

“Oh, for stars’ sake, Elim,” says Uncle Enabran. “If you’re old enough to do it, my boy, you should be man enough to talk about it.” He takes a long, wearied swig of his kanar. “Just tell me one thing. It wasn’t you with his trousers around his ankles, was it?”

It had not been. That had been Tavvit. Elim had been the fully clothed one on his knees, his tongue probing deep into Tavvit's sweet, wet _ajan_, terrified because he'd never done this before and had no idea what he was doing or what he was supposed to do next, and certain he'd mess it up, but emboldened by the soft moans and shudders and tugs at his hair. The one thing he'd been certain of had been that, despite what his books or his teachers would have said, what they were doing was _not_ wrong. It couldn't be wrong if it felt so natural. 

“No, Uncle,” he says. He is proud of the fact that he does not flinch. He doesn't move his eyes at all, just keeps them trained on Uncle's face. He’s not sure if this is another of Uncle Enabran’s tests. Surely it’s worse to be on your knees in this situation. At least Tavvit had been standing, like a man. But he can’t lie to Uncle Enabran. Uncle certainly already knows the truth. 

“Thank the ancestors,” says Uncle Enabran. “Elim. Not that I endorse it, but if you _are_ planning on having intimate relations in public again, always make sure you're unencumbered enough to escape if you're discovered." He snorts. "Not that it did you much good today."

Elim burns with shame at Uncle’s laughter. "No, Uncle."

"Although if you want to continue fucking men, Guls know you have my blessing for _that_. Sharing your bed with women can lead to complications that continue to plague you even sixteen or seventeen years later.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just be more discrete in future. Think about how this has shamed your poor mother.” 

"Yes, Uncle," says Elim, but he's not thinking about his mother, or their shame. Has Uncle just as much as admitted to being his father? It was certainly as direct as Enabran Tain ever is, which is exactly why Elim now has his doubts. Just what can Elim say to coax more information out of him? 

"But perhaps it’s better that you avoid any more of these little larks altogether for the time being.” Too late. Uncle moves on to another subject before Elim has a chance to say anything. “Unfortunately, there is the danger of attachment in either case. Especially for you; you are rather emotional, my boy."

"I'm growing out of it, Uncle," says Elim. He doesn't think he is, actually. The things he feels don’t seem to go away with age. If anything, they’ve been intensifying. But, today notwithstanding, he is getting better at _controlling_ his feelings.

Uncle Enabran is clearly also thinking of this morning's incident as evidence to the contrary. "Hmmph," he says in amusement. “We'll see about that. But in any case, I very much doubt you’ll be seeing Mr Oritzak again.”

Elim’s stomach clenches. He tries to remain cool, to show Uncle that he _is_ growing out of it, but he can hear a wavering thread of pleading in his voice as he speaks. “What are you going to do to him?”

Uncle smiles. “My boy, I don’t know why you’d think _I’d_ have any control over his fate. I’m not his father. But I doubt his parents are happy that he was caught with another boy. I imagine it’s the military for him. Carmine Regiment, no doubt. That’s usually what happens in these cases.” He chuckles. “As if that’ll fix him. If they think they’re removing him from temptation by taking him from a boy’s school to Carmine Regiment, well...” He chuckles again and leaves the sentence lingering. 

Elim has only been half listening to Uncle’s observations on the effectiveness of the military in setting confused young men right. His stomach is flip-flopping like a fish on a skiff floor, and he’s hearing everything through gauze. Everyone knows what happens to men — boys, actually, most of the time — in the service-class regiments. Especially Carmine Regiment. Those soldiers are considered the most expendable. Sure, there are speeches and ceremonies praising their service to the Union, but it’s obvious that sacrifices this weighty are not expected of the sons of the other classes. Service-class soldiers, always the first in the line of fire, die in great numbers. Or are maimed terribly, like Mila's brother Veikko, who has no nose and no fingers on his left hand and no scales on his face at all, and who just sits quietly by the stove in the kitchen of the Garak family home in Bonnog County, never moving from his stool unless Grandmother Garak or one of the other aunts or uncles or cousins helps him to shuffle to the facilities or the dinner table or to bed in the evening. Veikko was a figure of fascination and fear for Elim and his cousins when they were children, still is for the younger ones, but now Elim understands the tragedy of Veikko's life. Mila and the older relatives sometimes talk about how skilled Veikko had been with his hands, how clever and witty, how promising a young tailor he’d been before he was drafted into the Klingon wars. 

The idea of sweet, soft, sharp-witted Tavvit losing the brilliance in his eyes and living out his days a shambling husk of a creature like Veikko, somehow disturbs him even more than the thought of Tavvit's death. 

"Can't you do something?" Elim cries before he can think better of it. He curses himself. This is exactly the wrong way to approach Uncle Enabran. 

Uncle regards him coolly and then quaffs his kanar. He sets the empty flute aside. Mila will collect it for cleaning later. "Again. I don't know what you want me to do about it, Elim. I could talk to his parents, I suppose, or ask your mother to, but I doubt they'd be inclined to listen to anyone from this house right now. If anything it would make them more determined to send the boy away."

Elim is silent. He doesn't need to say it. They both know that Uncle could very easily have Tavvit declared unfit for active service, or arrange a safe, planet-side position for him. Or that a word from Enabran Tain himself to the Oritzaks would be enough for them to forget the incident had ever happened and send Tavvit back to school tomorrow. 

Uncle breaks the silence. "Cheer up, Elim. With the Oritzak boy out of the way, you can have a fresh start at school. I do believe your _regard_ for him was starting to distract you from your studies. Where you're going, you're better off without these kinds of attachments. Sentiment is a weakness, my boy. A great one.”

Elim has known for a long time that he’s not like the rest of the service-class boys. He’s not going to be following in the footsteps of his family, at least not his acknowledged family. He won’t, like his aunts and uncles and mother and generations of Garaks before them, be toiling his days away in a gardener’s hut or a tailor’s shop or the kitchen of a great house. He’s being moulded for a career in whatever mysterious branch of the ‘Civil Service’ Uncle Enabran is involved in. And, as Uncle and Mila have told him countless times, this involves a certain amount of sacrifice. He’s never had a problem with this, mostly because he’s never questioned it. It’s for Cardassia, after all, and if he can better serve Cardassia from behind a desk than from behind a sewing machine, then, much as creating things and working with his hands delights him, it’s worth any personal sacrifice he may have to make.

But. Elim is not a person who feels hot, surging anger very often. It rages in him now. The utter hypocrisy of this man! Sentiment a great weakness indeed! And what about Enabran Tain’s sentimental attachments? He has at least one, and it’s a big one — the woman who’s been in his life for at least sixteen years. He’d never tolerate Mila’s sass if he wasn’t _sentimentally attached_ to her. Why is it that Uncle can serve Cardassia and have this and Elim can't? Is he to be alone forever, then? The thought of him and Tavvit embracing in one of their cozy beds in his escape fantasies pops unbidden into his mind, but he banishes it as quickly as it comes. It’s simply too painful. He’ll have to be careful never to allow himself these thoughts again.

He opens his mouth. _but what about you and Mila_ is on his lips, but he stops himself in time. The absolute worst way to handle this is to point out Enabran Tain’s own weakness. He chokes down his rage. “Yes, Uncle,” is all he manages.

Uncle grins. “I’m glad you agree, Elim,” he says, hoisting himself from his chair. “Now, speaking of your schooling. I’m sure you can appreciate that Headmaster Onreny was not best pleased to learn of your little tryst.”

“No, Uncle.” He tries to be numb. 

“It’s not at all the kind of atmosphere he wishes to cultivate at the Academy. You boys are there to improve yourselves for the good of Cardassia.” Uncle has come over to other side of the desk. His large hands lie heavy on Elim’s shoulders.

“Yes, Uncle.” Elim tries not to let his body tense at Uncle's touch.

“Certainly not to engage in relations best left until marriage.” Uncle Enabran gives an avuncular squeeze. 

“No, Uncle.” _hypocrite! you’re not married, and I know what you and Mila do_

“And in the case of two young men, best not engaged in at all.”

_at least I’ll never have a son I won’t acknowledge_

“Elim, are you listening to me? This is important.” Uncle’s voice drips patience. 

“Yes, Uncle. I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

“Good. This concerns your future, my boy.”

“Yes, Uncle.” 

“The headmaster was considering asking you not to come back. But your mother was able to explain to him that you’d been coerced by the older boy.” 

This slander is not to be tolerated. Particularly as it had been _Elim_ who'd known about the closet in the isolated top-floor corridor, who'd led Tavvit there, and who'd been able to crack the lock. _Elim_ had nipped and bitten the quivering, pliant Tavvit all down his left neckridge before Tavvit had had the courage to reciprocate. It had been Elim who’d first snaked his hand into Tavvit's loose kit bottoms, who’d run a finger along the wet seam of Tavvit's _ajan_, who’d taken Tavvit's half-gasped whispering of his name and shy parting of his legs as encouragement to drop to his knees and hitch Tavvit’s trousers down and bury his face between Tavvit’s slim thighs. Worst of all, it had been Elim who’d left the door open a crack, in deference to his own insecurities with small places, and which had no doubt led to their discovery. 

Elim turns his head up in a half-successful attempt to look Uncle Enabran in the face. “Uncle, Mr Oritzak’s only four months older than I am,” he says, as dryly and steadily as he can. It's a simple fact, after all. 

Uncle smiles and pats his shoulder. “Perhaps, my boy. But four months can make a difference at your age. You’re quite sheltered, you know. Your mother never allowed you to play in the streets like those wild Oritzak children did.”

_that’s because I would have been a target for your enemies_ Elim has long ago pieced together the real reason he hadn’t been allowed to play in the streets with the other service-class children. It had nothing to do with Mila’s supposed over-protectiveness. If anything, Mila had been remarkably under-protective. She'd needed the help, after all, the only servant in a house this big, and hadn't had much time to cater to a needy small child, so he’d been her assistant from a very young age. Most of his peers hadn’t been ironing shirts and cooking hot dinners before they were in nursery school. 

“No, Uncle,” Elim says, and hates that he doesn’t say more. 

And curse him, Uncle knows it. Elim’s been doing himself no favours with these short answers. Uncle hates reticence. He says nothing, waiting for Elim to fill the silence. Elim searches for words. What does Uncle Enabran want from him this time?

“I suppose he did coerce me. I didn’t _want_ to go into the closet with him, but he talked me into it.” 

Uncle pats him on the shoulder again. “I thought so.” And nothing more. Elim is supposed to continue. 

“I thought he was my friend, but he used our friendship to manipulate me. You’re right, Uncle. Sentiment is a weakness. It’s better that he and I be separated, so we can concentrate on improving ourselves.” 

“Clever boy. I knew you’d see reason.”

“Now that you’ve explained I can see exactly how he did it, Uncle. I’ll be glad to go back to school and focus on my studies.” The words almost die in his throat, though he manages to get them out, as the thought of his school days without Tavvit stretch bleak and hollow before him. 

“It’s for the good of Cardassia, after all,” Uncle concludes for him. 

Elim nods solemnly. This is the moment. He sips his luma juice and collects himself before he’s able to form the next words. They have to be perfect. “Yes, Uncle. Although I'm not certain Cardassia would be best served by placing Mr Oritzak in Carmine Regiment.” 

“Oh? Carmine Regiment has a very proud history of service to the Union, Elim. As I'm sure you're aware. I hope you don't think your Mr Oritzak is too good for it." Uncle has left Elim's side of the desk and returned to his chair. He tents his hands, raises his eye ridges, and looks to Elim for an answer. 

"Of _course_ not, Uncle." Elim manages what he hopes is a shocked tone. "But Mr Oritzak has nearly completed his secondary education.” Unlike most of the boys in Carmine Regiment, who leave school at twelve or thirteen. “And, as you’ve made me see, he’s very cunning. He wouldn't fit in in Carmine. No doubt his presence would lead to discord in the ranks."

Uncle leans forward. "Do you think so? Is he such a rabble-rouser? That's a serious accusation. If he's ever engaged in seditious behaviour in front of you, my boy, you're bound to report it."

"No, no, Uncle, that's not at all what I meant.” His gut roils, but Elim thinks he's managed to quash the alarm in his voice. This is not going the way he intended. He tries to correct his course. "As far as I'm aware Mr Oritzak has no seditious ideations. It's just that I feel his personality, combined with his education, may make it difficult for him to properly integrate with his service-class peers in a military setting."

Success. Hopefully. It's hard to tell. But Uncle sits back in his chair. "I see. I appreciate your unique perspective, my boy.” He sighs. “I suppose that's what comes of educating the lower classes. Present company excepted, of course." 

Elim nods respectfully.

"And where would you propose Mr Oritzak be sent instead, if not Carmine?"

Elim keeps up with the news. He has an answer ready. "Ochre Regiment are doing important work in the Galiffma system.”

They are, in the sense that all work for Cardassia is important, though Ochre Regiment’s main purpose is to provide a place for disappointing professional-class sons, with the occasional disgraced scion of the ruling classes being offered a fourth or fifth chance to bumble his way to back into society’s good graces. It’s unstimulating work with dull people and there is no chance for distinction or glory. But it’s safe. And what’s more, it’s remote. If Uncle is willing to gamble on Tavvit’s possible death in Carmine Regiment in order to remove him from Elim’s life, perhaps he’ll consider it a suitable alternative to leave him to languish for years on a cold, distant outpost that’s about as far from Cardassia Prime as one can get and still be in the Union. 

“Hmmmm,” says Uncle. "You don’t think he’d have difficulties fitting in?”

Of course Tavvit wouldn’t fit in. They both know it. Despite his education and intelligence, he’d be their servant in practice, if not in rank. His name alone gives his background away, and if that weren’t enough, Tavvit’s never managed to completely master High Kardasi. His accent is coarse, and he makes basic grammar mistakes when speaking because he thinks in Service Dialect. His future associates won’t scorn or hate him, but they’ll never consider him as one of them. If Elim does manage to get Tavvit into Ochre Regiment, he faces a long, lonely existence. He'll be miserable. But he'll be alive and whole. 

“Of course not, Uncle. He’d be a natural.” 

Uncle is pretending to consider. He’s picked up his empty kanar glass and it clinks on his ring as he passes it from hand to hand. “Well, Elim. I do have a friend in the office who may be able to find a place in Ochre for your classmate. It’s unorthodox, but if, as you say, it would better serve Cardassia to have him there, I think the higher-ups might be persuaded.” 

As if Enabran Tain weren’t one of the highest of higher-ups. Elim tries not to visibly relax. This is as good as a promise. “We can only trust they’ll think of Cardassia first, Uncle.” There’s nothing more to say except this common refrain.

“Indeed,” says Uncle, placing the empty kanar flute to one side again. His eyes alight on Elim's glass. "Finished your luma juice, have you?"

Elim has not at all finished his luma juice. Most of it's still sitting there in the sweating tumbler, getting flatter and warmer and viler by the minute. "Yes, Uncle," he says. 

"Fine!" Uncle claps his hands and rubs them together. "I've got a bottle of 721 Tipok I've been waiting to try. Would you care to join me?"

That Uncle has diverted the flow of the conversation to something inconsequential is not surprising. It’s another of his tactics. But Elim has never been invited to partake from Uncle’s cellar before. In Uncle’s library he’s offered any number of sweet fruit juices, and at meals downstairs with Mila, it’s water or red leaf tea, with kanar from Grandmother Garak’s own vines only on State Days and their birthdays. 

“Yes, thank you,” he says. 

Uncle buzzes the kitchen from the console on his desk. 

“Yes?” Mila’s voice is breathless through the line. She’s answered unusually promptly, too. Normally she waits at least a few beats before responding to Uncle’s calls. _you’ve got to manage their expectations, son_

“Mila. Bring up the 721.”

“The Porot Ssel?” 

“Stars, do we still have some of that muck? No, woman. The Tipok. And two flutes.”

There’s a pause. “I’ll be right up.” 

Uncle leads them in inane small talk until there's a knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation, Mila walks in bearing a tall, twisted bottle of black kanar and two glass flutes on a sturdy silver tray. She shoots Elim an inquiring look. 

"There," says Uncle, indicating the sideboard behind him with a casual wave. "Thank you, Mila, that will be all."

"Mmmhmmm." Mila's still annoyed at Uncle. Setting the tray down, she gives a sarcastic little bow. She collects the empty flute from Uncle's first drink, then bustles to Elim's side to get the tumbler of luma juice. "What have you _done_, Elim?" she mumbles under her breath in Service Dialect. 

"We've been talking.” It's another one of the household conceits that Uncle can't understand Service Dialect, but of course he can, so Elim won't say more. He's not sure what the answer is, anyway. What _has_ he done? 

Mila gives him another look. "Be sure to mind your Uncle Enabran," she says, theatrically, in High Kardasi, and exits.

Uncle Enabran chuckles. He goes to the sideboard. “I think it’s time we dispensed with this ‘Uncle’ business, don’t you?” He tosses this casually across the room as he fills the heavy flutes, Tain family heirlooms, with care. "It's a bit childish. And after all, I'm _not_ your uncle." 

Elim allows surprise to cross his face. Even Enabran Tain doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. He tries it out. “Certainly, Mr Tain.” It’s uncomfortable. Awkward on his lips.

Tain has turned, a flute of slick, dark kanar in each hand. He smiles and offers one to Elim. "’Mister’ is so formal. There's no need for distance between us. Just plain, simple Tain will do." 

Elim stands and takes the drink. They salute each other with their glasses.

"Your health, Tain."

"And yours, Garak."

They drink together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd really treasure your kudos and particularly your comments on this one. I tried to do a lot of foreshadowing for the Elim Garak we know today, in canon, beta canon, and fanon (in this universe, Julian and Garak definitely get together at some point and live on Cardassia post-canon, and they definitely meet Tavvit). I'd be very curious what your thoughts are, readers.


End file.
